All this hype about Federico Macheda is really grinding my gears. Nothing gets my goat up more than some spotty-faced Jonny-come-lately grabbing all the headlines just for scoring one goal.

Seems the whole country has gone mad for this kid. People forget that he isn't the first 17-year-old to make an impact in the Premier League. People up in Leeds still talk in hushed tones about Pharrell Bell's debut at Elland Road back in 1999.

We were playing Bradford City in a league match. I came on to replace David Batty in the 65th minute, when we were 2-1 up. I remember what the gaffer shouted into my ear just before I crossed that white line: "I'm only doing this ‘cos I've got no other options. If I see you step foot in their half of the field, I'll tear you a new one at the final whistle. Don't f**k this up."

I never put a foot wrong. It was like Batty had never left the field. I kept it simple: crunching tackles from behind (they were encouraged back then), and on the rare occasions I found the ball at my feet, I always passed backwards, never forwards.

It's the short-and-simple formula that has made me the player I am today.

I felt on top of the world the night after my debut. Completely buzzing. I remember me and a group of mates went into town, thinking we'd hit a few bars, maybe go to a club, have a really big night out - problem was, we kept getting stopped by the bouncers on the door.

They'd tell us it was because we were wearing trainers, or because we didn't look 18 years old or because they "didn't like our face", but I knew it was because they recognised me and didn't want to get into trouble with my gaffer.

Of course, it didn't stop us celebrating. One of my mates knew an off-licence where he could get served, so he went and got us each a two-litre bottle of Strongbow. We took it down to the local park and got really wasted. I got a right rollicking from my old man when I got home, then puked in my waste-paper bin and slept in my clothes.

I dread to think how Macheda celebrated. A 17-year-old Italian kid? He wouldn't know what to do with himself. Probably had an extra helping of his mum's bolognaise and tiramisu. Maybe he pushed the boat out and stayed up late with a glass of limoncello, watching The Godfather.

It's a shame. But then, the foreign lads are a completely different breed to us. Sometimes I just don't get them. They can be on a completely different planet.

Take AC Milan midfielder Gennaro Gattuso for example. Now I've never been lucky enough to play against ‘The Rhino', but a couple of lads I know who played with him at Rangers told me he is a right tough old sod.

So what's he doing coming out and telling people that he thinks that footballers should be willing to take a pay-cut because of the recession? Now, I don't know how things work in Italy, sunshine, but over here it's every man for himself, right?

I don't think there is a single Pharrell Bell fan out there reading this blog who would honestly begrudge me my £25k-a-week, because they have seen how hard I've had to work to get into this position.

They've seen me going through the tough times. They saw me hit rock-bottom, sat on the bench when I played for Middlesbrough, watching that fat 'Brazilian' Doriva get picked ahead of me time and time again.

Devastation like that would be enough to drive a man insane. So when you see Pharrell Bell come through a crisis like that, you are delighted when he is finally rewarded with the sort of pay packet he deserves, right?

Gattuso should keep his gob shut. I don't know what it's like in Italy but over here, footballers have football FANS, and they are called FANS for a reason: because everyone FANtasizes about being us.

What sort of message would Pharrell Bell be sending out to the thousands of kids who idolise him if I said: "I don't want all this money. Take some of it back. I can live on £15k-a-week, it's fine. Don't worry. I'll sell one of my cars."

I'd be a laughing stock. I'd lose all the respect I have built up through years of living the flashy footballer's lifestyle. If I offered to take a pay-cut, it would break the heart of all those kids playing football in the cobbled streets outside their shabby, windows-boarded-up, two-up, two-down terraced council houses.

And Pharrell Bell isn't the sort of man to break any kid's heart.